Due Diligence

by D J Harrison

  Due Diligence

  D J HARRISON

  Published in Great Britain by Open Circle Publishing in 2013

  Copyright ©DJ Harrison 2012

  D J Harrison has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-909607-01-9

  Open Circle Publishing

  49-51 St Thomas’s Road

  Chorley

  Lancashire

  PR7 1JE

  www.opencirclebooks.com

  For Anne Marie

  1

  ‘Jenny Parker, Signor Casagrande will see you now.’

  I extract myself from the soft chair, dragging my heavy laptop case over my shoulder, and follow the receptionist. She walks across the immaculate white stone floor that gives a feeling of opulence to this steel and glass office building. Her body is beautifully proportioned, smooth under her simple dress; I shudder at how my short legs and large bottom must suffer in comparison. She must be in her mid-thirties, a similar age to me, but the ravages of age, childbirth and constant worry seem to have passed her by. She is the graceful embodiment of all I imagine myself to be on a good day. Today is not a good day.

  Paul hovers at my side but she turns to dismiss him. ‘Mr O’Rourke will be down shortly for you, Mr Unsworth.’

  I’m heartened by Paul’s obvious discomfiture, he considers himself to be of more than equal status and the snub will dent his masculine pride quite nicely. Although it’s not unusual for Landers Hoffman to send two accountants on a due diligence assignment, I could manage much better by myself. I’m anxious to get home to my child as quickly as possible; male colleagues, in contrast, welcome the free hotel room and the opportunity it gives them to try their luck with the nearest female, usually me.

  The receptionist leads me up a chrome and steel staircase and deposits me in an office lined with display cabinets containing model racing cars. On the corner of the large desk is a cube of glass encasing a yellow racing helmet with a green stripe.

  A thin-featured man enters wearing a perfect grey suit and immaculate shirt and tie. His sharp eyes appraise me and I meet them for a brief moment. What I sense behind them is a strange mixture of excitement and fear, with fear the predominant component. Why?

  ‘Giuseppe Casagrande.’ He gives a short, stiff bow then offers his hand.

  ‘Jenny Parker, Landers Hoffman Accountants, Manchester office.’ As I look across at him, our eyes meet again and he unashamedly holds my gaze. His dark brown eyes penetrate deeply and make me feel exposed and unprotected. Breaking away from his stare, I look instead at his clothes which appear to have been poured over him while molten. There is no part of them that is not a perfect fit. The white shirt cuffs protrude a satisfying amount from his jacket sleeves. His shirt collar is neither slack nor tight. His tie is perfectly knotted, cascading a delicate blue tracery which perfectly complements the suit, which looks handmade, beautifully tailored and fitted with precision. Nobody in my experience dresses like this. It’s a tradition from another age, another world.

  His eyes are still on me; not on my body, not weighing me up, not imagining me naked, not feeding lascivious thoughts, but gazing into my soul. As our eyes meet I experience a shudder of fear similar to the one I detected in him when he first entered the room and to my dismay I feel scared and vulnerable.

  The silence has gone on long enough and, dry-mouthed, I begin. ‘My colleague and I are here to conduct a due diligence audit on behalf of World Ordnance Systems. We would be very grateful for your assistance in helping us get the job done as soon as possible. It’s all fairly routine; I’m sure you’ll all be familiar with due diligence procedures.’

  ‘But we’ve already had a visit,’ Casagrande says. ‘Your Mr Youngs came. He conducted a full investigation and pronounced himself totally satisfied.’

  My heart jumps at the mention of Martin’s name. ‘So I understand. However Mr Youngs is currently unavailable because of family commitments and we’ve been sent to expedite matters in his absence.’

  Yesterday, Paul bundled me unceremoniously into a tiny meeting room as soon as I arrived at the office. Breathlessly and in a strangely loud half-whisper, he told me about Martin’s unfinished business here and why we hadn’t seen him recently.

  ‘Between you and me, Jenny,’ he said, ‘his wife has been in to see Eric. She expected him home two days ago and he hasn’t been in touch. She doesn’t know where he is and apparently she told Eric that she’d thought for some time that he had a…well…that he was having an affair, you know.’

  I was shaken by these revelations. My face burns again as I remember Paul’s words and I’m still reeling at the implications. Nobody knows about Martin and me, nobody, absolutely no-one at all. The idea that flashed across my mind, that there could be another mistress, is absurd. Martin’s wife can only be referring to me. I’m shocked that she should know, but not surprised. Martin and I have been seeing each other on a regular basis for almost a year now. Wives tend to notice when husbands return home to them without any vestige of sexual energy remaining. Most worrying of all, I’ve heard nothing from Martin myself.

  Casagrande cuts through these thoughts. ‘This acquisition is very important to us, it cannot be delayed by personal problems at some accountancy firm. I hope you understand, Signora Parker.’ The gaze again holds mine and I nod while trying not to squirm.

  My discomfiture is alleviated when the receptionist reappears and takes me along the corridor to a large room where Paul is sitting in conversation with two men.

  A short portly man with bushy grey hair is the first to rise.

  ‘Mark Sullivan.’ He reaches out and grasps my hand weakly. ‘This is Liam O’Rourke.’ Sullivan indicates a tall man with caterpillar eyebrows and thick black hair.

  Sullivan makes the mistake of setting Paul off with the inevitable polite question about our trip to see them. ‘How was your journey down here?’

  In response, Paul inches his way down the highways of England describing every turn and obstacle as if it were of great interest to our hosts. I sigh inwardly and settle back in the comfortable leather chair. A striking black lady with wide flashing eyes and beautiful tight curls comes in and distributes hot drinks.

  Paul is a boring man. He’s one of Martin’s managers and someone I find deeply irritating. It was Eric who insisted I came all this way with Paul to cover for Martin’s unexplained absence. Eric is the managing partner, not a man to be denied if I want to keep my job, no matter what childcare problems it gives me. Now, Paul is sitting at the table peering down his long skinny nose, head shining in the fluorescent light. I notice his shirt buttons protruding beneath the black cardigan, tight across his ample belly, like pieces of coal on a snowman. There seems little harm in the man unless I count his inability to know when to stop his flow of drivel. On my own, I could have this due diligence exercise done in half a day. Paul’s presence means I have to spend the night away. Little Toby will be inconsolable when he realizes his mother won’t be there at bedtime. Tim will do his fatherly best but I know it won’t be good enough.

  I spread out the paperwork on the table and try to divert Paul off the M40 and back to the matter in hand.

  ‘I realise that you may think some of these questions are going back over the same ground but please bear with us,’ I look up and smile before getting stuck in. ‘Th
ere are transactions amounting to over thirty-five million pounds which are referenced as consultancy costs. Although we have a breakdown of the payments we do need further clarification. Can you give me a description of the services provided, please?’

  Sullivan is all smiles of accommodation while O’Rourke is shrouded by serious melancholy as we grind through the information. I make pages of notes, Paul witters on ingratiatingly. The body language coming from Sullivan and O’Rourke is all sham and deception, the atmosphere resentful. I have to remind myself that we are not looking for problems; we’re here only to demonstrate that we do our job in a reasonably responsible manner.

  Eric made it quite clear that this visit has to gather the detail to justify our positive report. Landers Hoffman’s fees are conditional on the acquisition going ahead. If a few financial warts are uncovered after the event we only need to make sure they were blemishes we couldn’t have been expected to see.

  Paul appears oblivious to anything other than his own pompous voice. It’s a situation that I’ve observed many times before. He asks what he imagines are important questions and expects me to write down the answers. This would be a reasonably efficient way to do business if only he listened to the answers. This failure on his part leads inevitably to him repeating the questions over and over again until I manage to stop him or night falls or the subject dozes off.

  I write down Sullivan’s description of the company’s activities. Associated Composites design and manufacture components from exotic materials, supplying the aerospace and automotive industries. They have factories in various parts of Europe, including Monaco and Andorra, places I associate more with holidays than manufacturing, though I suppose everywhere needs some form of industry.

  As I take notes, I feel a little disappointed that of all the exotic locations being reeled off, I have to end up here in Northamptonshire. The way Paul drives it would have been quicker to fly off somewhere, anywhere, rather than endure his unerring ability to find the most congested motorway and the longest delays. A false note in Sullivan’s voice makes me snap out of my daydream and start paying serious attention. Things are not going well. Paul is conducting this visit in a manner that irritates the hell out of me. There is a long list of queries, things that need explanation or additional evidence, but he seems more interested in justifying his own actions and ingratiating himself with Sullivan and O’Rourke. Most annoying is the way he remains oblivious to the fact that they’re constantly being evasive. I can see that they are lying, covering up, avoiding straight answers. Paul continues, smiling and accommodating, pretending to be a man of the world in the company of equals.

  2

  As I sit on the edge of the giant bed alone at last in the functional tidiness of my Travel Lodge room, the feeling of vague unease I had after first examining Associated Composites’ accounts has grown into a realisation that there is something very wrong. Every attempt I make to get to the bottom of things is met with ill-disguised fudging and at this rate of progress I could be here for a long time. I really do need to get home tomorrow; I’m concerned about what’s happening there.

  Tim tells me all is well, Toby has been a good boy; he has eaten all his tea and he went to bed at the right time and is sleeping now. Even over the phone I register my husband’s insincerity, he might as well be Sullivan or O’Rourke, but I have to comfort myself with belief.

  I imagine a world where I no longer have to deal with Tim and for an instant I feel a lightness – which evaporates quickly as all the thoughts crowd back in about Toby needing a father and how I couldn’t manage financially without Tim.

  A firm rapping on my door jolts me back to the here and now. There’s only one person who knows my whereabouts and that’s Paul. Our arrangement is to meet for dinner at eight, it’s only seven fifteen and I’m sitting in my underwear looking forward to a relaxing shower. A tide of anger tempts me to shout, ‘Fuck off and leave me alone,’ but instead an inane, ‘Who is it?’ actually emerges.

  A soft voice with a disarming accent replies. ‘It is I, Giuseppe Casagrande. My apologies for disturbing you, Signora Parker.’

  My heart beats faster in shock, I peer through the tiny peephole and a distorted version of Casagrande is indeed on my doorstep.

  ‘Wait, one moment.’ I cast around for something to wear, quickly dress and open the door. He walks in majestically and sits down on the chair by the desk. He is alone, dressed in a dark blue suit now, looking even more expensively elegant. I realise that I felt compelled to admit him; refusing him entry was something I didn’t consider. Now he is here I feel my discomfort increasing and wonder if I should have sent him away. After all, I am a vulnerable woman alone in a hotel room.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me.’ He waves to encompass the room. ‘And in such unconventional surroundings. I fear you might find me not entirely professional.’

  He smiles to reveal perfectly white, perfectly even teeth. I wonder whether they’re his own. I also wonder what he would possibly want with me. His manner seems more assured now and less disturbing than I experienced at the office. There is a cool charm, the air of a man operating in his own element, performing work that he is good at and comfortable with. The thought that this might be rape or murder is easily dismissed. His suit is far too expensive for him to be engaging in anything messy.

  ‘I am asking for your help, your assistance, Signora Parker. The people I represent require the takeover to proceed smoothly. It is very important to them. It is not something that they can allow to fail and it is very close, practically complete: a done deal as you say.’

  I begin to mentally phrase my queries – what people? Why do they want it so much? Why me? How can I possibly be of any help? – but Casagrande’s tight manner and precise economy of words convince me that this is no question and answer session. He is here to speak, I am supposed to listen and, I feel a pang of worry at this, agree to do whatever he wants. He places a thick document case on the desk. It’s black leather and blends in comfortably with the general opulence of his attire.

  ‘Here, this is for you, an indication of our serious nature and good intentions. I am sure you will find its contents convincing. All you need do is make sure that your firm delivers a positive report on Composites, something that says that a thorough check has been made and that all is as it should be. Something that will smooth the process of the transaction.’

  He pushes the leather case towards me and stands up. A sudden realisation of what the case might contain grabs my stomach. Of course it could be some of the extra documentation that Paul has requested but I have my doubts. Then excitement grips me and I can hardly stop myself from zipping it open and checking out my suspicions. In the presence of Casagrande this seems inappropriate, almost insulting, and I resist. As he turns for the door I manage to voice my uncertainty.

  ‘Wait. I don’t know how I can help you. It’s not up to me; it will have to be a partner that signs off the due diligence on your business. I’m only an accountant, I don’t think I can help.’

  There is a stern look on his face as he turns towards me.

  ‘Signora Parker, let me explain. Where I come from there are two kinds of people. In the north, if you do not do what is asked of you then a member of your family is taken and pieces of them are sent to you until you do what you are asked. In the south, if you don’t do what you are asked, then you are killed. You need to be aware that the people I represent are from the south.’

  With that he opens the heavy door and leaves me standing in numb incomprehension until the fearful implications begin to sink in. I no longer have any desire to open the case. It can only bring certainty to the situation I am in. I lie down on the bed and close my eyes hoping to wake up to find the world the place it was before Casagrande showed up.

  3

  Paul is making a pass at me as we finish our dinner. He is full of self-importance which has been fuelled by drink and the company of people he perceives as important and influential. People who he
thinks like and respect him. The same people who regard him as a nonentity and instead enlist my help to further their interests. Or perhaps Paul was included, why not? Another threatening speech wouldn’t seem to be beyond Casagrande. If that were the case Paul has shown no signs over dinner, or has he? I think back and try to filter out any useful items from the torrent of conversation.

  The references to work were confined to speculation about Martin, which made me freeze with indignation, and grand designs for Paul’s future career which include occupation of Martin’s corner office and made me want to hit him. As for Associated Composites, he expressed the view that things had gone well and that we should be away in good time tomorrow. My breath catches in my throat. As long as Paul is happy to sign off a positive report I appear to be off the hook. If not, at least according to Casagrande, I will soon be dead.

  My life is in the dithering hands of this smug man who is in the process of ordering yet another bottle of wine, this one to take to the room with us.

  ‘I thought we could have a drink in my room while we sort out the paperwork for tomorrow,’ he leers.

  It’s gone ten and I’m absolutely tired out. If it had been up to me I would have stayed asleep after Casagrande’s visit. Instead Paul banged cheerfully until I joined him, no rest, no shower, only sitting in a pub restaurant eating microwave in the bag food and feigning interest in what Paul has to say. Now he’s trying to get into my knickers as if it were some benign ritual to be conducted whenever male and female colleagues were away together. It might have worked for Martin but this is very different. I need to get back to my room to check the contents of the document case and to sleep, even if it brings nightmares.

  ‘That’s very thoughtful,’ I remain pleasant despite my increasing disgust, ‘but I’m very tired, Paul, and I have terrible stomach ache.’ I rub my belly as convincingly as I can.